


Partners

by caelesalad



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:02:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24599467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caelesalad/pseuds/caelesalad
Summary: “If there’s one thing the Ministry of Magic should’ve learned by now, it’s that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy donotget along.”“And will not get along.”“Oh, shut up.”“Youshut up.”“Can you two please, and I meanplease, shut the fuck up?”There's an illegal Time-Turner on the loose that the Ministry demands to investigate immediately. Naturally, Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are the ones sent to retrieve it.To Harry, it really doesn't matter that Draco's hair is an awfully remarkable shade of silky platinum. Or that you can't tell the difference between his smirks and his genuine smiles unless you're staring at that tiny dimple on his left cheek that only appears when he's actually happy. Or that his brand of sarcasm is so maddeningly endearing they should bottle it and sell it in shops, because Harry would buy it in entire packages and get hopelessly drunk on them after two tiny sips. And it really, really doesn't matter that Harry Potter might--might!--be falling in love with him.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Theodore Nott/Blaise Zabini
Comments: 6
Kudos: 190





	1. Chapter 1

“You two were roommates once.”

“Yes. We also tried to poison each other using various illegal potions—“

“—sabotage each other’s relationships relying on carefully structured plans that, unfortunately, failed to reach the same level of immaculate perfection when carried out—“

“—barely refrained from torturing each other with Unforgivables—“

“—and exhibited destructive behavior by throwing _multiple_ valuable family heirlooms that cost a literal fortune to replace—“

“—not to mention that he was the reason I found my knickers dangling from a fucking makeshift Quidditch hoop at the Head Table on Christmas morning.”

“All in the same year, in case you were wondering.” Draco adds, smiling. He suddenly frowns. “Also, Potter, don’t insult my hoop like that. It was my most prized possession when I was a wee little child.”

“What, like you aren’t one now?” Harry retorts.

“Well, I like to think of myself as a rather responsible and put-together adult—“ Harry snorts, and Draco smarts, affronted.

“Boys.” Hermione says, clapping her hands, a mildly exasperated expression on her face.

“Granger, I know you hate me and I won’t deny that I probably hate you even more—but you love Potter, don’t you? Cut him some slack, he’s died and come back to life. He technically shouldn’t even be labeled alive! The poor bloke has gone through so, so much—“

“Yes, and you’ve only contributed to that pile—a considerable amount, in fact,“ Harry mutters.

“—and you wouldn’t want to cause him any more pain, would you, by forcing him to partner in the most exciting mission of his life with—of all people—me?” He finishes, ignoring the annoyed looks Harry was shooting in his direction.

“Well, there were a few misses in his speech, but yes, ‘Mione, don’t you think…” He trails off, in search of a better way to phrase his thoughts.

“Don’t I think what?”

“That… well… we don’t make good partners.”

“Malfoys don’t do partners.” Draco chimes in.

“And while Potters _do_ do partners, they don’t with Malfoys.”

“Hmm, I don’t know.” Hermione answers. “I’m simply suggesting this based on the careful analysis of your personal records here at the Ministry. Our systems have reached the conclusion that you two would be a perfect match in all sorts.”

“And what exactly do you mean by that?” Draco questions, the impatience creeping into his tone.

“For instance, Harry has a track record to be slightly too lenient with criminals—and don’t bother arguing, Harry, I know that you removed the chains from a serial killer because he couldn’t pick up the slice of pepperoni pizza you decided to buy him.”

“He said he hadn’t eaten in five days!” Harry exclaims. “I know what it’s like to be painfully hungry and it would’ve been simply _inhumane_ to let him continue to starve.”

Hermione’s eyes flutter closed and she takes a few deep breaths. She says, in a sickly sweet voice, “I hope you remember he escaped and we had to send out a disproportionate number of reinforcements.” She fixes her eyes on Malfoy, who was rather enjoying watching Harry flounder. “And you, Malfoy, tend to be too forceful on them. You scared the living daylights out of a woman who was mistakenly accused of stealing her neighbor’s _fruit pastries_. We had to provide her with a lifetime supply of Calming Droughts after you told her you were going to perform the Dementor’s Kiss on her.” She rolls her eyes. “No objections?”

“I told her I _might_.” Draco grumbles. “And she was thrashing so badly, it was hard to get her to comply.”

“You could’ve explained the situation a bit more clearly. You could’ve used, oh, I don’t know, maybe _magic_ to restrain her.” Hermione dismisses him with a wave of her hand. “The point here is, you two make a good team.”

“You don’t know that yet,” Harry says, eyes narrowed.

“It’s time to find out then, no?” She gets up from behind the desk, waking up Crookshanks, who had been dozing off in her lap, and sending him hissing angrily at the interruption. She leans down to soothe him, and he twitches his tail and brushes up against her legs. She looks up and smirks. “Don’t worry. I’ll send help if one of you manage to kill the other.”

“You mean when,” Harry intones darkly, but rises from his chair and heads for the door, Draco following him close behind.

“Oh, and Harry, Malfoy?” Hermione calls out sweetly, and they both turn around, nearly in sync.

“It really was quite adorable how you finished each other’s sentences. Keep up the good teamwork!” She winks.

Harry and Draco look at her, at each other, then back at her. Harry curses under his breath while Draco pinches the bridge of his nose and heaves a long, agonized sigh.


	2. Chapter 2

“A little acknowledgement would be nice.”

Harry steps into the room, rubbing his eyes groggily against the sunlight bursting through the windows. Draco simply smirks and opens the curtains wider with a flick of his wand.

“A little punctuality would be even better.” He replies, turning around in his chair to face Harry, who squints and shields his eyes with his hand.

“My alarm didn’t ring,” he grumbles, rummaging in his pocket for his wand. He fishes it out and spells the curtains closed, cloaking the room in a hazy darkness, and Draco narrows his eyes and swishes his wand in the air, effectively throwing them apart again. Harry huffs but settles for sinking into his seat, burying his head in his heads and muttering about how insufferably annoying Draco is.

“I can hear you, you know,” Draco comments, standing up and stretching. “But I would rather not start any new arguments, seeing as we’re going to be stuck with each other for the rest of the day, or possibly even longer.” He shudders.

“Sounds like plain torture.”

“Likewise.”

A hasty, loud knock sounds at the door, and Hermione bursts in, yelling, “ _Don’t_ mess with the bloody curtains, I’ve had them fixed three times already because of stupid _idiots_ like you two!” She notices that the pair of them are standing very far away from the windows, with Harry appearing as if he was trying very hard not to burst out laughing and Draco examining his fingernails, seemingly unconcerned. She gives a prim little cough. “Oh. They’re fine. I thought I heard something—well, never mind.”

Draco raises his eyebrows. “Slightly paranoid, aren’t you?”

“Shut up, Malfoy, you _were_ messing around with the curtains.”

“ _You_? I don’t know if I should blame your misuse of pronouns on your faulty grammar or diabolical personality.”

Hermione forces a very tight smile on her face. “Well, I just thought I’d come by and say goodbye.”

“Well, isn’t that nice of you. Do you want a farewell hug?” Draco says dryly, leaning against the wall.

“Malfoy’s just jealous because he hasn’t had enough friends to know what friendship means.” Harry pretends to think. “I’m sorry, did I say not enough? I meant none.”

Draco whips his wand out, ready to attack, but Hermione steps in between them, briefly closing her eyes and opening them, as if half-hoping they’d disappear. “I would really love for you to—ah—exercise your dueling skills before heading out, but now is not the time. Well, it never is the time to start shouting curses at your partner—one lesson both of you would benefit tremendously from,” she adds in an undertone, before stepping towards Harry and wrapping him in a quick embrace. “Stay safe out there, alright?”

Harry smiles. “Alright.” He notices Draco pointedly looking away, and rolls his eyes. “You can join if you want, I promise I won’t run away screaming even if you do.”

“You certainly have high expectations.”

Harry shrugs. “Your loss.” He pats Hermione’s shoulder and reaches for the doorknob, then pauses, frowning.

“Wait, but I thought you could Apparate within Ministry quarters…” Harry wheels around and sees Draco, a mildly amused expression resting on his features. “Were you really going to let me hail a cab and ask to be whisked away to Knockturn Alley?”

“Honestly—no.” He shrugged. “But I was going to wait until you got in the cab to tell you.”

“And you?” Harry turns to Hermione and demands. “You too?”

“In my defense, I was going to wait until you hailed the cab.” She says, snorting.

“Wow.” He throws his hands up in the air. “What a kind, caring, noble group of individuals the Ministry selects for its most prestigious positions. What. A. Group.”

“You’re actually saying that like you’re any better.” Draco comments lightly, and Hermione nods in mock seriousness. “But enough with the festivities. We have to get going if we want to avoid the crowds. We’ll be off, Granger.” He nods swiftly, and before Harry can do anything more than look up in confusion and let out an involuntary _oh_ in surprise as Draco’s hand grips his arm, he’s sucked into utter darkness, his throat and chest squeezing painfully.

Soon enough, his vision floods with color again, and he stumbles, holding on to the hem of Draco’s robes to stay upright.

“Careful, Potter. Wouldn’t want you to rip custom-made designer clothing.” He says dryly, scanning his surroundings.

“Of course,” Harry grumbles, fishing in his pocket for his wand and a scrap piece of paper. He holds it up to his eyes and reads, “Abbey’s Antiques and Accessories? Sounds fairly benign.”

“Could you make it any more obvious that you’ve never been to Knockturn Alley?”

“As a matter of fact, I have. More than once.” He says nonchalantly, folding the paper. “I’ve seen you there, too. Well, more like stalked.”

“What? When?” He asks, caught off his guard.

“Not now,” Harry teases, and turns to him. “So where should we go?”

“That way.” Draco says, pointing. They start walking in the direction he pointed, the road eerily quiet and abandoned. The windows of the shops are greasy, the displays falling apart and appearing to have been neglected for years. Harry spots a poster advertising an intelligence-boosting elixir from 1991 as “The Latest Potions Phenomenon” and a mannequin dressed in tattered robes that bear a striking resemblance to the ones Ron had endured wearing at the Yule Ball years ago. There isn’t much to stop and marvel at, unlike the flashy, vibrant signs and loud noises usually crowding Diagon Alley, and even the sunlight seems harsh and unforgiving.

“There’s much, much more to it than what meets the eye,” Draco says suddenly, his eyes fixed straight ahead.

“Uh—yeah. Right.”

“Here.” Draco pulls into a tight, narrow alley and strides ahead, leaving Harry to scramble hurriedly behind him. Harry finds himself admiring the confidence and pride that each step carries—it wasn’t simply because Draco was a pompous, petty, rich asshole (which he undeniably and inarguably was), there was something more that showed everyone that he was comfortable and thriving in his own skin. He owned his identity. Harry didn’t like the git, but they were far past their trivial rivalry and he occasionally had to admit—though not aloud—that he had his endearing qualities.

“Ow!” Harry exclaimed, crashing into Draco’s back as he stopped abruptly, gesturing for him to be quiet.

“We’re here,” he whispered, and Harry craned his neck, expecting to see another boring old store but scrunching his eyebrows in confusion when he’s instead greeted by the sight of an old woman leaning against a rickety wooden armchair, snoring softly, her gnarly fingers clutching the gigantic dusty bucket resting in front of her. The letters _Abbey's_ are carved into the bucket in crude handwriting, coated in layers of dust and grime.

Draco clears his throat, but the woman continues to gently rock back and forth, her eyes closed and oblivious. Harry bites back a laugh as Draco, shooting him a glare, reaches out tentatively and taps her shoulder.

She doesn’t seem to have felt it, as her snores only grow considerably louder, but as Draco leans forward again, her eyes fly open and she snaps, with contempt and annoyance lacing her grubby tone, “I’m asleep!”

“Well, now you aren’t,” Harry mutters quietly, and she glares.

“You think I can’t hear you because I’m old? Well, let me tell you, these ears of mine are blessed—have been for a good few decades now. I can hear everything from your pathetic little heartbeats hammering away like frightened rabbits to the rat two blocks over scurrying home with a banana peel between its teeth!” She scowls. “Now give me a good reason as to why you woke me up because now you’re just wasting my time.” She crosses her arms and lifts her chin.

 _Fiesty_ , Harry thinks, but doesn’t dare voice his opinions out loud in fear of another outburst. He instead takes a step back, holding up his hands, and says, “We’re from the Mi—“

“The McVee family.” Draco interrupts smoothly. “You see, we’re currently apprenticing for Mister McVee, our beloved uncle, to get familiar with the business, which we’re planning to take over in a couple years. He asked us to come visit you in search of a prized treasure he’s been searching for, saying you were the only person he could trust to sell genuine artifacts with value. He asked about a… necklace, with a small pendant in the shape of an hourglass? Was that what it was, Trent?”

Harry blinks but nods hesitantly, wondering why Draco wasn’t telling the truth.

“Aha!” The woman gives them a toothy grin— _more like tooth_ less, Harry realizes with a stifled chuckle—and picks up her bucket, shaking it aggressively and pursing her lips.

“Hmm…” She slams the bucket down on the floor again, and the noise reverberates around the streets, causing Harry to wince. “Sorry, boys. You’re going to have to tell your uncle he just missed his chance. The item’s been sold.”

“Are you sure?” Harry asks dubiously, eyeing the bucket. “It might be stuck in there somewhere. Could you possibly take another look—“

“I’ve been doing this for thirty-five years, kid. I recognize every one of my precious items solely based on the sound they make clanging against this trusty baby right here.” She pats the bucket. “Better luck next time.” She leans back in her armchair, preparing to slip back into her slumber—

“Could you at least tell us to whom it was sold?” Draco pleads. “Our uncle would be so devastated, and we would hate to let him down. Perhaps we could strike a deal with the buyers.”

The woman cracks open an eye, sighing and sitting back up straight at the imploring look on Draco’s face. Harry glanced at him and noted that he was indeed a proficient actor—he nearly felt bad for him.

“Quite tall. Thin. Brown hair, pale skin. Looked a bit like he’d collapse after a single blow to the head.” Harry started to feel hopeless at the woman's vague descriptions, but Draco looked at her intently, nodding encouragingly. “Oh! And he came with a boy—I wish I meant that differently, but I don’t. They were holding hands,” she says distastefully. 

“Could you describe the other boy a bit more clearly?”

She claps her hands. “He was a sight, that one. Dark skinned, powerfully built, kept running his hands through his hair—incredibly vain, I suppose.” She sniffs. “A young man like that could do so much better—he could start with getting a girl, for starters.”

A slow, satisfied smile stretches across Draco’s face, much to Harry’s bewilderment, and he turns around. “Why, I think we’ve got a pretty good idea of who this young man is, Trent.” To the woman, who’s still grumbling about how this mysterious man should start looking in the market, begin exploring his options, he says politely, “Thank you so much. You have been an immense help to us today, and we will be sure to let our uncle know.”

She grunts and waves him off, her eyes fluttering closed once again. Draco gestures at Harry to follow and forges ahead, ignoring the small gaggle of people pointing and gawking openly at them walking down the streets.

Harry caught wind of their conversation and almost choked.

“Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, that can’t be right!”

"Are you sure they aren't just on some Ministry job?"

"They look pretty suspicious to me. I heard ol’ Lucius got into a right squabble with his son over there, maybe it was about this funny relationship right here—imagine, the Chosen One swapping spit with his only heir—“

“Now I’d be delighted, just as long as it was with my daughter instead, imagine the fortune and fame he’d bring with him—“

Draco takes a sharp left turn, leading them into a particularly bustling area of Diagon Alley, with whining children and hopping wizards bumping into them and hurrying along. Harry tries to force all thoughts of the outrageous snippets he’d just heard out of his mind as Draco leans forward and announces, “We’re leaving.”

Harry scoffs indignantly. “Like we have any clue as to where we’re going.”

“Nott and Zabini.” Draco says smugly. “They weren’t exactly exclusive when we were at Hogwarts, but it seems like they’ve made things official recently, no?”

Harry’s mouth drops open, and he runs a quick tally of the traits the woman had described in his head—they fit the two Slytherins perfectly. He nods grudgingly, not wanting to give Draco the chance to start gloating. Thankfully, Draco merely grabs his arm again—Harry was really beginning to wish he hadn’t heard the part about _swapping spit_ , because now he was desperately attempting to block out mental images of snogging Draco Malfoy, and his face was heating up, and Draco’s fingers were causing strange tingling sensations to spread throughout his entire body and he was feeling delirious and wobbly and dizzy—

Their feet hit solid ground, and Draco immediately lets go of Harry’s arm. Harry breathes out a sigh of relief, but frowns when he feels a flicker of disappointment following it. _Ridiculous._ He was not going to let some gossiping witches do weird things to his brain.

Draco casually strolls to the front gates, waving his wand in a complicated fashion to make them swing open. Harry trails behind him uncertainly, his eyes swiveling from the extravagant fountains adorning the garden to the butterflies flapping their wings and resting on bright, blooming flowers. He hadn’t really bothered to invest his intimidating loads of money into house decorating and furnishing, letting Hermione and Ron (mostly Hermione) do all the planning and moving. His own room was still packed with boxes, and he spent most of his time there sleeping, curled up on his comfortable bed.

Draco raises the ornate brass knocker in the shape of a lunging snake and raps it against the door three times. A terrified squeal and a hasty pattering of feet sound from inside the house, and the two exchange a look.

The door creaks open, and a huge blue eye the size of a tennis ball stares up at them, glancing first at Draco, then at Harry--it shrieks, and slams the door again.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Draco mutters. He rummages through his backpack, holding out a small vial containing a brick-red, shimmery liquid. “Drink up, Potter.”

He gapes. “What is _that_?”

“Polyjuice. It’ll turn you into a Muggle that I captured specifically for this purpose a few years ago.” He explains, then tilts his head. “Don’t tell Granger that.”

“How come _I_ have to drink it?” Harry protests. The potion looked a lot tastier than the ones he’d previously drunk, but he was not looking forward to the agonizing transformation.

“Nott’s house elves are trained to recognize enemies like yourself, and to never extend their trained hospitality to them, no matter what their immediate instincts are.” He says. “You’re still Undesirable Number One in his household, even though Theodore personally has nothing against you.”

“I doubt that.” Harry reluctantly accepts the vial from Draco’s outstretched hand, examining it carefully and biting down the wave of nausea threatening to wash over him. He uncorks it, shutting his eyes closed, and drains the entire bottle in a single gulp. His skin burns and his intestines twist and coil and stretch and his ears and neck and knuckles all sting like mad, aching, and he jerks forward, sure he's going to start retching, but the feeling dissipates, leaving his gasping and wiping a thin trail of sweat from his temple.

“Merlin’s beard, Malfoy. You’re going to pay for that.” He wheezes, his voice abnormally high-pitched, and he realizes, dismayed, that he’s now a good few inches shorter than the blond.

“Sure, Potter.” He snickers. “You look just like a Weasley. They were always your surrogate family, no? Now you even look the part. Red hair, plenty of freckles—oh no, you’re a tad too short, now, aren’t you?”

“Shut up,” he retorts, channeling as much malice as he can into his reedy tone, but it ends up sounding sad and defeated. He groans.

“Let’s just stick with Trent for the name.” Draco decides. “Trent McVee.”

“Whatever you say, Malfoy.”

Draco knocks again, and the wide eye emerges again, this time accompanied by a glimpse of a big, pointy ear. “Hello, er…”

The house-elf glances around surreptitiously before whispering, in a barely audible voice, “Teeny, sir.”

“Ah. Teeny, right.” Malfoy looks momentarily lost before his gaze lands on Harry, shifting uncomfortably. “Teeny, this is Mister McVee, he’s visiting us from down South. And you know who I am.”

Teeny throws a final nervous look behind her, as if expecting to be chastised and dragged away any moment, but takes a deep, shuddering breath and pushes the door open, welcoming the two of them in without even looking twice at Harry.

“Mister Malfoy, Teeny doesn’t understand why you is…”

“Where is your Young Master?” Draco asks, then says, a tad more gently, as Teeny’s thin, parched lips begin to quiver, “I came here looking for my friend, Theo.”

“Young Master Nott is… is….” Teeny lets out a wail, rushing over to a round mahogany table placed in the center of the room and slamming the flower pot on her fingers repeatedly, screeching and yowling, causing Harry to use every ounce of self-restraint he had not to stuff his fingers into his ears and roar. “Bad Teeny! Bad Teeny!”

“No! NO!” To Harry’s surprise, Malfoy hurries over, levitating the flower pot and moving it to the far end of the room, next to a portrait of a dozing lady donned in elegant, flowery fabric. A kitten is curled up on her lap, and she yawns, murmuring, “Oh, sweet baby, it must be our neighbors next door again. Let’s go back to sleep.”

Teeny’s wide eyes well up in tears, and she sniffles, before pulling out a groggy, discolored handkerchief and blowing her nose into it noisily. She hiccups pitifully. “Mister Malfoy must not…” Another hiccup. “He must not be so kind to the house-elves.”

Harry raises an eyebrow—Draco, kind? As if hearing his thoughts, Draco says loudly, “A lot has changed since the war, and I’ve come to terms with my wrongdoing and mistakes of the past.” He lowers his head and says softly, “Teeny deserves to be treated better, is that clear?”

Teeny’s eyes widen in disbelief (Harry's do too), and her gaze flickers over to a small marble statue sitting on his right, before she nods jerkily.

“Now, why can’t you tell us where Nott is?” Draco prods, his tone still tender.

“Young Master Nott has… has trusted Teeny with his secret. If anyone else was to find out—“ She gives his head a wobbly yet firm shake, squeaking out, “It would be a disaster, sir.”

“Mister McVee and I here have some very good news to deliver to Nott. Could you at least give us a hint?”

“A hint…” Before Harry can even properly register what is happening, a loud crack explodes in the air and Teeny is throwing herself against the wall and yelping noisily again. Draco is there in a flash, yanking her away, and Teeny crumples to a messy pile on the floor, her cries reduced to feeble moans. She wipes her eyes on her dirty handkerchief, shivering.

Draco strides over to Harry, scowling. “This is meaningless—she’s too loyal.”

“But maybe…” Harry thinks, images from the Hogwarts kitchens of a certain miserable house-elf popping up into his mind. “We could try getting her drunk.”

Draco looks at him as if he’s just suggested they eat the house-elf alive. “Excuse you?”

Harry sighs. “I know it isn’t the most appealing plan to your new and active conscience, but we’ve got nothing else. And it’s not like we’re intending on revealing Nott’s secret to the world or whatnot—Teeny will have nothing to feel guilty about.”

“Or,” Draco ponders. “Or we could _actually_ make her have nothing to feel guilty about.”

“What are you saying?”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m saying we Obliviate her.”

“Oh.” Harry frowns. “Is that allowed?”

“Honestly, Potter, did you ever read a single page of _Regulation and Rules at the Ministry: Auror Edition_?”

“I knew that Apparition was allowed within offices, so I must have, right?” The truth was that Harry had simply heard Hermione lecturing a group of students from Hogwarts while accompanying them on their tour of the buildings—but Draco didn’t need to know that.

“Yes, because it really seemed like it when you were seconds away from leaving the building to board public _Muggle_ transportation.” He sighs. “I suppose your idea’s worth a shot.”

“Great. I know a place in Wizarding London.” Harry beams.

Teeny hoists herself up, staggering and limping, and stares at them with woeful eyes. Draco grimaces. “Drinks with the Boy Who Lived and the Elf Who Cried. Sounds positively _alluring_.”

Harry winks at him cheekily. “I’m glad you think so.”


	3. Chapter 3

Getting Teeny to finally leave the house takes a significant amount of effort that mainly consisted of enduring her piercing wails and weeping sobs. The process required immense patience—a quality that Harry and Draco both lacked in great quantities—but the house-elf relents after nearly two hours’ worth of persuasion.

As they step out into the backyard, Harry wipes his brow in exhaustion. “If that wasn’t the most challenging task in my entire career—heck, my entire lifetime. I’m starting to miss searching for Horcruxes and fighting legions of giants.”

“I wish I didn’t have to agree with you, but I really can’t disagree.” Draco says tiredly.

They console a worried Teeny with a few more reassuring remarks ( _If I have to utter the words_ it will be okay _once more, I will combust. I will freaking implode._ , Harry thinks furiously) before Harry clears his throat and says nervously, more to Draco than to Teeny, “So, er, if you can hold onto my arm—both of you—“

He feels the steady pressure of Draco’s hand gripping his forearm, and Teeny’s sharp nails pinching his right hand, and concentrates on the familiar image of the warm, cozy bar he used to visit with Ron and Hermione right after graduating to celebrate their victories and—

The air whooshes back into his lungs. He clutches his knees, turning around to make sure Teeny was still with them.

“It’s a tad nicer than I expected,” Draco observes, already on his feet and striding towards the entrance. Harry, hastily dusting off his robes, follows him.

The merry jingle of the bells signal their arrival and the barman, Leo, looks up. At first, Harry’s confused as to why he merely grunts and gestures to the empty seats, but he remembers he looks like a mini Weasley and stops himself from cracking the corny jokes he normally saved for these trips.

The three of them settle into a dark but cozy corner in the back of the bar.

“Anything you want to get, Malfoy?” Harry asks, preparing to get up and order.

“I’ll just have a Firewhisky, thanks,” he replies curtly.

Harry knits his eyebrows. “Are you sure?” He whispers. “ _We_ don’t need to get wasted.”

“Right. Only the poor house-elf,” Draco shoots back. “Besides, do you honestly think I’d get drunk on a single drink? Please, Potter.”

Harry rolls his eyes but goes and grabs two Firewhiskeys (one with extra shots) and a Butterbeer for himself. When he returns, Draco is passing a paper napkin to a stammering, blubbering Teeny, suggesting that maybe he trade her old handkerchief for something new.

“Mister Malfoy is too kind…” Teeny wipes his eyes on the paper napkin, then holding it against the lights and examining it, shining with gratitude. “Teeny is having a ‘something new’ now, all her friends and family will all be so jealous—“ The color drains from her pale face, and Harry, sensing another hysterical tantrum approaching, hurriedly places the bottle in front of the elf.

“Here you go, Teeny. Just a little drink for your nerves.”

“But Master Nott has always told Teeny, don’t accept anything from strangers…” She looks at Draco, then at Harry, and slams her puny fists on the table, causing them both to jump. “But Mister Malfoy and Mister McVee is no stranger. They is Teeny’s friends.”

“That’s right,” Harry says, plastering a fake smile onto his face. “We’re your friends, Teeny. You can trust us.”

Teeny nods bracingly, determined. She reaches a trembling hand out, knobby fingers curling on the bottle, and tipping her head back—drains half the bottle.

Harry gapes, and he notices Draco’s mouth is hanging open, too. He leans over and mutters, “Guess we didn’t see _that_ coming.”

Draco nods hesitantly and takes a sip of his own drink. Teeny seems to sway, dazed, and lets out a loud belch followed by a giggle. “Teeny is liking this drink, sir!” She gulps down the rest of the bottle and bangs it down on the table, grinning widely. “Could Teeny have some more, Mister Mc… McBee?”

Harry bites his lip but returns with another glass, which he sets down in front of Teeny cautiously, contemplating warning her about downing too much of it—but she grabs it, squealing excitedly, and gulps it down hungrily. Thankfully, her alarming pace seems to slow down a little, and Harry turns to Draco—except he has his head on the table, face sweaty and flushed pink, smiling stupidly.

Harry balks, wondering just how low Draco’s tolerance was, until it occurs to him that he might have accidentally switched the glasses. Sure enough, the half-empty bottle sitting in front of Draco was streaked with a telltale dash of bright red liquid. He groans. He now had a drunk house-elf cackling madly about how the hanging lanterns were salsa dancing and a drunk Malfoy smiling—actually _smiling_ , not smirking or sneering or twisting his face up into the typical contorted expression he claimed was _happiness_ and Harry called _anguish_. He didn’t know which was worse.

“Malfoy,” he tries, praying Draco had just suffered a temporary head injury because of the racket Teeny was causing, and was going to snap up and lash out at Harry any moment now—but all Draco does is nod sleepily, his eyes sliding out of focus.

“Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. Drayyy-co Malll-foy. That’s my name. What’s yours?”

Harry barely suppresses the urge to lose his temper, and decides to handle his initial task first. He faces Teeny, who’s singing what sounds like a nursery rhyme but has lyrics like _Cindy forgot to water her Master’s beautiful plants / Next morning her body was fed to the garden ants._ Harry shudders.

“Erm, Teeny?” She ignores him, continuing to belch out disturbing lyrics. He waves a hand in front of her eyes, and she blinks slowly.

“Mister… McChee? Mister Mac and Cheese?”

“Behold, the mystifying powers of alcohol,” Harry mutters, before speaking to her clearly, “We—I—need you to tell us where your Young Master is.”

“You mean Young Master Nott? Why, he’s at his family cottage in Chestnut Orchards, of course.” Harry crosses his fingers under the table, hoping she doesn’t realize her slip-up, but she simply frowns and asks, “Why is your name Mac and Cheese, sir? Did you choose it for yourself? Of course, Teeny isn’t knowing what mac and cheese tastes like, because her masters have refined taste, but her brother says it’s delicious--“

“Do you know what the house looks like?” Harry interrupts impatiently.

“The Nott cottage, sir? Well of course, Teeny remembers it clear as— clear as—“

“Great, you have to take us there.” He slowly reaches out and takes her hand, then, swallowing anxiously, clasps Draco’s wrist. He mumbles something about crazy hair and sighs dreamily. Harry nods at the elf. “Okay, Teeny, on one, two—“

With a loud, deafening pop, his feet hit solid ground. He lifts his head and lets go of the two, wrapping his coat tightly against the chill. He grits his teeth and nudges Malfoy forward, while guiding Teeny by placing a hand on her back. “Yes, that’s right, just keep walking, no, not that way, yes, nice and easy—“

He arrives at the front door after what seems like several eternities and is greeted with the same serpentine knocker as the one from the mansion. He’s just about to rap it against the door when it swings open, revealing an amused Theo, who calls out, “I was right, Blaise. It’s Potter towing Draco, not the other way around. Pay up.”

Harry blinks, confused. “But how do you—“

Blaise appears in the doorway, grumbling and shoving a couple of shiny coins into Theo’s outstretched palm. His eyes land on Harry and he scoffs. “How do we know it’s you, Potter? Your cute little scar is showing under that hideous mop of flaming hair.” He motions to his forehead, and Harry touches it self-consciously. "Also, we were expecting you."

“Now, Blaise, where are our manners?” Theo rolls his eyes. “Good evening, Potter. Red hair is truly not a flattering look on you. Come in.”

Harry doesn’t know whether to laugh or punch them in the face, so he settles for an awkward nod and shuffles inside. Theo hoists a drowsy Teeny onto his back, and Harry tries his best not to look too surprised, but he turns around and says, “Draco isn’t the only one who’s chosen to reflect on their past.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“No need,” he says smoothly, and Blaise passes them, tugging an uncooperative Draco behind him sluggishly.

“Bloody hell, what is in that damned bag?” He yells, sliding the leather backpack off Draco’s shoulders and sighing in relief. “That thing must have weighed at least as much as himself. I don’t know how he _does_ it.”

Harry trails behind the pair, still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that they were a couple. It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen two guys holding hands or, hell, even kissing passionately in public before—what stunned him was the easy connection they held, the sparks of chemistry. And what terrified him was how much he found himself desiring it—not just the shagging-a-guy part, nor the playful, snarky banter part, but both of them, equally as much and a _lot_.

Harry bit his lip. He was being ridiculous. He was currently broken up with Ginny, sure, but the fact that he’d dated her—held her hand, made out with her, enjoyed spending time with her in a totally non-platonic way—meant he couldn’t possibly like blokes in _that_ way, right?

He shook his head, trying to rid it of baffling questions he could never provide a satisfying answer to--along with images of a certain blond that accompanied the thoughts for mysterious reasons Harry didn’t want to know and didn’t want to think about.

Instead, he told himself to get his head in the game. He found Blaise setting Draco down on a fancy turquoise sofa, draping a plaid navy blanket over him.

“Listen, Zabini, I’m not just here for any reason, Malfoy and I are—“

Blaise raises a hand. “We know why you’re here—we think we have a pretty good idea, at least. And it can wait until tomorrow morning. Now sit down and drink the chamomile tea Theo’s going to be bringing in.” He sits on the loveseat on the opposite side, crossing his legs.

Harry opens his mouth to protest, but Blaise cuts in. “Just listen to me and things will be so much easier, Potter."

Harry scowls, but sinks into the sofa. It’s incredibly comfortable, the perfect combination of smooth and plushy, and he breathes out, “Wow.”

“Imported from Italy last month. Unicorn hairs laced with lavender stems, with Puffskein fur added in for the extra poof, and dyed in brilliant _ixia viridiflora_ flowers.” Blaise sniffs. “Don’t spill anything on it, or I’ll destroy you.”

“Be nice, Blaise. Potter, we won’t destroy you, we’ll just secretly murder you.” Theo says, grinning, carrying a platter with several teacups on it and placing it on the table in front of them. He looks up at and gapes. “What on Earth is Malfoy _doing_?”

Harry swivels his head to his left, where Draco is gently rocking back and forth, his arms wrapped around his knees, humming serenely.

“I don’t know, being drunk?"

Theo snorts. “No, he isn’t. I know what drunk Draco Malfoy looks like, and this isn’t even close.”

Just then, Draco slumps over, his head falling onto Harry’s shoulder and lolling gently. He whines, his eyes still closed, “Can I have a hug? Pretty please?” Harry’s insides do a swooping flip, and he really tries to look at anywhere but at Draco’s lips, which are painted a delicate shade of baby pink, parted slightly in the middle, practically begging to be kissed.

Theo gawks. “This is starting to reach new levels of horrifying.”

Even Blaise’s bored countenance morphs into surprise. He shrugs at Harry. “When the git gets drunk around us, he starts throwing things and spending money on shit like amulets shaped like pickles, not whimpering like a pathetic baby and begging to be hugged.”

“He’s holding onto you just like he holds onto his stuffed lion, Francis Leopold.” Theo snickers. “He told us he’d thrown it away the instant he got sorted into Slytherin, but we’ve never seen him go to bed without it.”

“The trouble he went to trying to hide it from us,” Blaise adds.

Their exchange barely registers with Harry, who’s still investing all his willpower into not pressing his lips against Draco’s right then and there. He clenches his fist, removing his shoulder from under Draco’s head as cautiously as he can manage, and setting it against the wall instead.

“Tired?” Theo guesses, and Harry nods gratefully, glad for any excuse to escape this painful moment. He stands up quickly, stealing another glance at Draco. “I’ll lead you up to the guest bedroom—but I suppose I should warn you, Draco is not a content sleeper.”

Harry laughs nervously. That could _not_ mean what he thought he meant. “And why... are you telling me that?”

Theo rolls his eyes. “This is a vacation cottage we only use two or three weeks a year. Do you honestly think we have that many spare bedrooms?”

“You mean… Malfoy and I, we’re, uh.”

“Sleeping together, yes.” He frowns. “That doesn’t sound quite right, but you get the idea.”

 _Did I_ get the idea? Harry’s mind was racing, his heart frantically throwing itself at his rib cage in a frenzied, erratic rhythm. He lets himself be led up the stairs, stumped into silence. It was absolutely bonkers, but he felt much, much more nervous than when he had been about the confront the violent, savage Hungarian Horntail during the Triwizard Tournament.

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding when he’s ushered into the room and sees that the bed is definitely made for two people or more. Once Theo leaves (“Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite—in this case, the bowtruckles, because I think my father might have stored them in a box somewhere in here,”), he hurriedly changes into his pajamas, glad he’d brought them along, and is about to get into bed when Blaise enters, groaning, hauling Draco behind him.

“Move,” he commands, and Harry hastily rolls over to the right to make room—perhaps more than is necessary—for Draco. Blaise sets him down and turns to leave. “I’m guessing Theo already told you about the vicious bowtruckles, so I’ll give you a different warning instead: Draco sleepwalks, sleeptalks, and sleep—well, you’ll find out.”

Harry gulps. He did _not_ want to find out. He figured out that if he went to sleep fast enough, he wouldn’t have to lie awake, staring at Draco’s—

Too late. Draco scoots closer in his sleep, snoring softly, and reaches his arm out blindly, and after a few tentative pats in which Harry’s eyes and nose kept getting poked, he settles for petting Harry’s hair. “Crazy hair,” he coos, and Harry genuinely wonders if the bloke has a hair fetish.

Harry shifts to the other side, but Draco starts to pout, and he quickly decides he can’t handle him pouting—not when he looks so adorable and so freaking helpless. Harry, with great effort and sacrifice, closes his eyes, willing himself to count sheep in his mind, picture a calming beach with the waves lapping against the sand—anything but letting his attention wander over to Draco still caressing and attempting to tame his hair and messing it up even worse. He’s finally settled on thinking about the warm, laughter-filled nights he’d spent with Hermione and Ron last summer, curled up on armchairs and eating Mrs. Weasley’s scrumptious home-cooked meals every day—

Draco lets out a soft moan and his arm slips down to land on Harry’s torso. He toys with the thin fabric a bit before sighing and falling back into a quiet slumber. Harry grits his teeth and breathes in, breathes out—it was going to be a long, long night.


	4. Chapter 4

“You’re drooling.”

A familiar drawl rings in Harry’s ears, and he jolts awake, scrambling for his glasses and pushing them onto his face. His vision clears, and he pushes himself into an upright position, bunching the covers around his torso protectively.

“You’re, er, awake.”

Draco raises a sardonic eyebrow. “You continue to stun me with your exceptional observation skills.” He smirks. “Come down for breakfast.”

Harry watches him warily as he strolls out of the room—hair perfectly combed, robes perfectly pressed, posture perfectly poised, perfectly _perfect_ —and sighs. He already missed drunk Draco—silly, adorable, and best of all, daft.

Harry trudges downstairs, and immediately wrinkles his nose when the putrid odor of rotten eggs and stale bread hits him. Upon entering the dining room, he sees a very disgruntled Blaise sitting at the head of the table, massaging his temples and generally looking rather sleep-deprived.

“What kind of lullabies do house-elves sing to their children and why on Earth are they about stupid ways to get killed? And are house-elves all tone-deaf or is that just Teeny?” He mutters angrily under his breath, barely acknowledging Harry. “I can’t get the part about the mutant flobberworms out of my head, fucking hell.”

Harry winces. “Good morning?”

Blaise glares at him. “Thanks to your brilliant plan of get-the-house-elf-wasted, Theo and I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night.” _Neither did I_ , Harry thinks sheepishly. “And the elf fell asleep around thirty minutes ago, and we obviously didn’t want to wake her. We also don’t know how to bloody cook. Hence this stinking mess of a meal.” He gestures sharply to the steaming, melting pile of what Harry assumed—and sincerely hoped—was scrambled eggs and toast. (With sausages. Were those sausages? They were awfully pink.)

“I can cook,” Harry volunteers. “I spent the first half of my life doing nothing but chores from washing dishes to scrubbing floors.”

“What you’re trying to say is, you used to be a human house-elf,” Draco snickers, striding into the room, and Harry rolls his eyes.

“Unfortunately, Wizarding households operate slightly differently.” Theo replies, appearing in the doorway and shrugging. “You can try if you want, though.”

“Uh, alright.” Harry makes his way to the kitchen tentatively. He scans the area and finds that most of the items and equipment he remembered from the Dursleys’ are missing. There’s a sink and a cooktop, but that’s pretty much it.

“Lost, Potter?”

Harry whips around and Draco stands there, shaking his head in a condescending way. Harry grimaces. “I never really learned magic for these sorts of circumstances.”

“Clearly.” Draco pushes himself from the wall he was leaning against and walks up to Harry, examining the cabinets and countertops with a calculating look. He bites his lip and pulls out his want, tapping it hesitantly, then mutters a few spells under his breath—and pots and pans come flying out of the drawers, landing in a neat, arranged line in front of them.

Harry gapes at him. “You… you know how to—“

“Shut up.” Draco hisses. “I don’t need you to announce it to the world.” Harry frowns. “If you don’t want to completely embarrass yourself, Potter, I suggest you listen to me and do as I say, starting with the _shut up_ you just conveniently ignored.”

“Fine.” He huffs, crossing his arms over his chest as Draco levitates a carton of eggs, containers of—baking soda? baking powder?—and a plethora of boxes and cans towards them. The lids fly open, pouring its contents out to its respective dishes, and the eggs glide out of their dimples and crack themselves over a plastic bowl. Harry watches in stunned amazement as the utensils and ingredients spin, jump, and twirl of their own accord, creating a cheerful, bumbling racket.

“How did you—“

“Don’t ask.” Draco holds up a finger and tosses him a whisk. “And I can’t do all the work here, can I? Whisk up, Potter.” He points to the far right corner where a salt shaker is tilting itself over a bowl, straightening up and returning to its original place after giving a final, decisive shake.

Harry walks over to the bowl, holding the whisk firmly in his right hand and starting to run it in circles, smoothing out the mixture. He feels like he’s being watched very closely and tries to do as nice a job as he can—but a few minutes later, Draco sighs and comes up behind him—and reaches his left arm, threading it through the small niche between Harry’s elbow and waist, to grab the bowl steadily, and his right to close his hand over Harry’s.

Harry opens his mouth awkwardly, considering gently removing his body from this, er, _daunting_ position, but Draco hums and clicks his tongue, pressing his fingers against Harry’s softly and beginning to stir, with a quick, measured precision. “You’ll need more speed than that to finish this before Theo and Blaise come storming in here throwing hysterical tantrums—or even worse, before they eat that miserable trash Blaise concocted.” He frowns. “And loads more of stamina— _how_ is your arm trembling already?”

Harry doesn’t say a word and wills himself to stay silent and still, even though it feels like every nerve ending in his body is exploding in fireworks—crackling and buzzing and craving more of the tantalizing feel of Draco’s smooth, cool skin nudging against his knuckles and wrapping around his wrists with every passing second. He doesn’t want Draco to see just how affected he is by their sudden proximity, so he swallows and averts his gaze from the thin veins traced in teal mapped on his pale skin, over to the frying pan sizzling to his left.

“Really? The frying pan?” Draco mutters under his breath, but continues to stir anyway. Harry bites back a sheepish grin, but he suddenly notices Draco’s warm breath ghosting on the back of his neck and freezes. It was too much. Harry could duel renounced Dark wizards and break into Gringotts and survive a myriad of encounters with beasts even Hagrid would find not so much cute as terrifying—but he could not just stay there, while Draco Malfoy’s platinum locks brushed against his ears as he leaned over to check the state of the batter and his soft _hmm_ drew suppressed shivers from him, causing Harry to bite the inside of his cheek, hard, and channel all his energy into resisting from grabbing both Draco’s wrists, whirling him around, pushing him up against the refrigerator and kissing the hell out of him.

Harry genuinely can’t tell if it has been two seconds or two centuries when Draco finally taps the whisk against the bowl, smirking satisfactorily, and gently pulls his arms back. He picks up his wand and waves it with a flourish, and the batter begins to pour out onto the pans in perfect circles. “You’ve done enough, Potter—you can go now, tell them breakfast is ready.”

“Right.” Harry says under his breath, still in a slight daze, and walks out to confront the disgruntled, tired faces of Blaise and Theo. They’ve started to poke and prod at the dripping mess (which Harry doesn’t quite think is eggs and toast anymore), and their expressions lighten up considerably when Harry enters the room, bringing the delicious scent of pancakes with him.

“Breakfast will be served soon.” He says loudly, and their eyes practically shine in anticipation. “Pancakes,” he adds.

Unfortunately, a few minutes pass and Draco doesn’t call him back, nor does he come in.

“I will turn _you_ into pancake batter if you don’t give them to me this instant.” Blaise growls, and Theo swats his arm but nods fervently in agreement.

Harry gulps and treads back into the kitchen, where Draco is fussing over placing tiny blueberries perfectly on the pancakes.

He grins. “Wow, talk about being a perfectionist.”

Draco doesn’t even turn around, still fully concentrating. He groans in frustration as the blueberry he was fiddling around with rolls over, but he finally gets it right in a few tries. (Actually, Harry’s not sure what the difference between the last two was, but he thinks it’s best not to ask.) He spins around, beaming triumphantly. “They’re perfect. Go ahead and take them.”

Harry rolls his eyes but picks up the plates, letting the other two float behind him, and treads into the dining room. He sets the plates down, grinning, and Draco walks in, a trail of forks, spoons, and knives floating over his head. They jump onto the table and march their way over to each placemat, and Harry raises his eyebrows, amused. “Cool trick.”

Draco, naturally, ignores him.

They sit down and scarf down their meals in companionable silence, the clattering of cutlery and Theo’s occasional remarks (“The maple syrup is fucking _cold_ , did you shove them in the freezer? Why would you _do_ that? Huh?”) being the only sounds. Once they’re all done, Draco sends the plates soaring over to the kitchen, where they pile themselves in the sink.

“Wow, I’m impressed, Malfoy.” Blaise says, watching the plates soar over their heads and wiping his mouth with his napkin. “I thought you didn’t know where the plates went.”

“Oh, Draco was a huge help,” Harry supplies, and Draco cuts him, giving him a look.

“By help he means that I berated, chided and scolded him for insisting on doing things the Muggle way and wasting so much valuable resources.”

Blaise chuckles. “Now you’re beginning to sound more like the Draco I know.”

Harry leans over and whispers furiously, “Why don’t you want to admit that you _know how to cook_?”

“Are you hearing yourself?” He shoots back. “Malfoys don’t do cooking.”

“Malfoys sure don’t do much.” Harry pretends to be concerned, knitting his eyebrows in faux concentration. “Wait, do they breathe?”

“Wow, Potter, you can be so dense sometimes.” He responds dryly. “Of course we don’t, what are we, human beings?”

Harry lets out a laugh. Theo and Blaise shoot them strange looks, but gesture them over to the sitting room, where they settle into the loveseat, leaving Harry and Draco to share the sofa and flooding Harry with memories from the previous night. He tries to sit as far away from Draco as possible, but something must be wrong, because Draco’s thighs keep pressing into his no matter how much he scoots in the opposite direction.

Once they’re all settled (Harry very uncomfortably so), Theo clears his throat. “So, we’re guessing you’re here for this.“ He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, cube-shaped box. He snaps it open, and the Time-Turner is resting on the velvet cushion, glowing a dazzling, radiant blue. “And we intend to give it back to you—but give us a chance to explain.” He bites his lip anxiously, and Blaise places his hand over his, earning a quick half-smile.

Theo takes a deep breath. “Back when—back when the war had just ended… Most of the people who had sided with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named—they were either thrown into Azkaban, executed, or tortured for information. Not surprisingly, they were all extremely bitter and furious with the way things had turned out, and quite a few followers hoped that they would be the ones to bring the Dark Lord back to power again. Many ideas were voiced secretively, discussed through hushed conversations and coded messages in Azkaban cells, and spread widely through methods of communication the Ministry was entirely unaware about.

“One that stood out in particular was the invention of an authentic Time-Turner. While Ministry-issued Time-Turners had various restrictions that prevented the user from altering the past and thus the future too much, the one they were planning on creating had none, meaning they could go back in time five, ten, even twenty years. Back to the time before any of us were born. Back to the time when the Dark Lord was steadily rising to fame and wealth, before he had made the grave mistake of attacking a young boy—well, you.” He nods at Harry, who shifts nervously. “They thought that they could warn him about the consequences of his actions, stop him from leaving for Godric’s Hollow on that night if it came down to it.

“They succeeded--well, in making the Time-Turner, anyway. And they continued to elaborate on their scheme, adding specific details, devising alternative methods, and eventually, their outline wasn’t an outline anymore—it had grown and expanded until it was a very tangible and very plausible plan. However, time was running short. Ministry officials were getting impatient, citizens were rioting for harsher punishments, and so the number of potential participants were decreasing significantly every day. They soon decided to carry it out on the same day the Dark Lord had first fallen—so again, on your birthday, Potter.

“But, as you might have already figured out, it never happened. Because the one person who had been the most active, the most vocal when debating different tactics and strategies, the one person they had counted on most to bring back their venerated lord, betrayed them.” Theo looks down at his lap. “And that man was your father, Draco.”

Draco blinks, then his gaze hardens, his relaxed countenance stiffening. Harry wants to reach out and comfort him—murmur reassurance and encouragement, squeeze his hand, hug him tightly, anything—but he doesn’t.

Theo fingers the gold chain of the Time-Turner. “He realized he didn’t want that, any of it. During the long, long months he spent in Azkaban, he’d experienced hurt and cruelty like he’d never done before. He looked back on his life and saw that it was tainted with evil and malice, tarnished and sullied with the blood of the people whose lives he’d ruthlessly torn apart. He finally thought those three words that led him on a path to reflection and redemption: he was sorry. And he was tired of advocating for more evil and more harm, more devastation. So he gave the Time-Turner to me.

“And Draco, you’re probably wondering why he didn’t pass it on to you. But there’s an explanation for that.” Draco refuses to look at him, gaze fixated on his shoes.

“In that dark, dingy cell, he also learned about the full extent of the lifelong pain he’d inflicted upon you. He had pushed you in the hopes you’d be greater, stronger, and better than who he was, yet he had never stopped to actually _look_ at you. You _had_ been greater, stronger, and better a man than he ever was, and he was only now discovering it. He was scared to tell you about the Time-Turner, scared you’d continue to push yourself even when he was gone, scared you’d be unable to throw away the expectations he’d forced upon you and, yes, go ahead with the plan. He was scared for you, Draco—he wanted to protect you.” Theo gently closes the lid of the box, sliding it over the table. “He loved you.”

Draco stays motionless for a couple seconds, in which silence blooms around them, enveloping them in a morose atmosphere. He finally sneers, but his voice trembles. “Yeah, because it really sounds like he did.”

He stands up abruptly, his knee brushing against Harry’s, and walks out of the room. Theo and Blaise exchange worried glances.

“I knew that would be his reaction.” Theo sighs sadly. “It isn’t easy to believe that after decades of neglect and abuse, his father would suddenly change and radically alter his perspectives.”

Harry nods stiltedly, although he didn’t—couldn’t—know what that would feel like. He had always known that Draco had had a rough relationship with his father, but dismissed it with the thought that he was lucky to be dealing with those problems, as it meant that he, at the very least, had a father.

“You should go to him.” Blaise says.

“Me?” Harry asks, unsure. “Wouldn’t it be better if you two went? I’ve known Malfoy—well, I’ve _known_ him for quite long, but our, er, friendship is hardly set in stone.”

Blaise shakes his head. “You understand him. You’re—you’re similar in ways you don’t see. Trust me on this.”

Harry gives him a dubious look but slowly makes his way out and up the stairs, guessing Draco’s locked himself in the guest bedroom. He knocks, but he doesn’t get a response.

“I’m coming in,” he announces, but a muffled voice replies, “Yeah, like the hell you’d be able to.”

Harry whispers _Alohomora_ , but the door remains firmly locked. He tries a number of other spells he’d watched Hermione perform in similar situations, but none of them work, the last one simply shooting red sparks that bounce off the door. An idea suddenly occurs to him, and he taps a little bug crawling on the wall, successfully transfiguring it into a hairpin. (Professor McGonagall would’ve been proud.) Twisting it and shoving it into the lock, he jiggles it a couple times, and the lock clicks open.

Draco’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to Harry. “I keep forgetting you were pretty much raised as a Muggle.” He says resignedly.

“Yeah, well, I have the best of both worlds.” Harry cautiously makes his way over, settling down on the bed with a few inches of space between them. He decides it’s best to wait until Draco wants to talk.

“It’s not that I don’t believe him,” he says after a moment of quiet. “It’s that I don’t… I don’t _want_ to believe him.”

“… Why?” He doesn’t reply. “I mean, you could go talk to your father about it, surely Azkaban allows communication between family members, and work your emotions out, apologize—“

“He passed away last month.” Draco says simply.

Harry takes in a sharp breath. “Oh.” But he thinks of what he’d overheard the other day, and he’s suddenly confused. Surely Draco wasn’t lying, but that didn’t explain why no one, including himself, didn't know about it.

“We didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.” Draco continues. “My mother and I had to pay at least a dozen news outlets and media companies not to publish it as the front page article or whatnot. We already had enough grief and sadness to deal with as it was—we didn’t need to see witches and wizards grumbling about how he’d never received proper punishment—how it had been a, a _privilege_ for him to die of natural causes in a prison cell instead of being subjected to a worse fate.” His voice shakes, and Harry notices his fists balling up.

Harry lets the silence wash over them, like foaming, frothing waves crashing into golden stretches of sand, before opening his mouth. “Look, I—I don’t know what it’s like to lose a parent. But I _do_ know what it’s like not to have one. And… wow. I’m so sorry.” Draco shrugs. “It hurts, yeah?”

Draco nods, a small, jerky movement, that Harry only catches because he’s paying such close attention, he can see the slight upwards curve of Draco’s long lashes and the way he’s gently biting down on his lower lip.

“I really did spend my entire life trying to please him.” He says scathingly, but also like he doesn’t have the energy to muster enough bite. “I don’t know which is worse—that he never got to tell me the one thing I desired most in person, or that he never properly trusted me until the end. Or maybe it’s that even now, I seek his approval and… crave it.”

“Draco.” He looks up, his eyes clouded in uncertainty. “Your father did love you. He was proud of you and he trusted you. He wanted you to be safe and happy, even if it meant going back on everything he’d ever fought for. He made a great sacrifice making these decisions, and I think… I think the only reason he became so determined was because he loved you.” Harry finishes, feeling odd and tender and fragile.

Draco looks down at his lap, where his hands are clasping each other, fingers intertwined and palms folded. “Yeah.” He says. “Yeah, not as in I think you’re right, Potter, but yeah, as in let’s go get that Time-Turner, bring it back to the Ministry, and blow it to bits.”

“But—“

“If it makes you feel better, I do believe that part about him loving me,” he says, looking out at the window, where the sun glimmers joyously over the lake. “And the rest’ll take time—healing, accepting, forgiving. But I’m willing to wait.” His gaze flits over to Harry’s, and a trace of a smile flickers on his face. “Besides, since my father’s gone now, I can get rid of those blasted peacocks in our garden. They’ve really taken a liking to my shoes—and by _liking_ , I mean they like to, ah, _defecate_ in them."

Harry grins back. “And I always thought they were so graceful.”

✷ 

“So, uh… This is where we get going, huh?”

“Mm-hmm,” Draco says, placing the velvet box gently inside his backpack and turning around to face Harry. “We did succeed after all—Granger’s definitely going to be happy.”

Harry laughs, the sound seeming unsure even to his own ears. “Yeah.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “What is it, Potter? Say it.”

Harry _could not_ and _was not_ going to ever say what he was thinking out loud. Because he was thinking that this would probably be one of the last times he was going to be alone with Draco Malfoy, just the two of them, and he was thinking that he didn’t want that to be the case. He was thinking about the way Draco had snuggled close to him late at night and the addictive touch of his skin pressing up against his and how open and vulnerable he had been earlier—to hell with it, he was saying it. Well, maybe not the whole truth, but he was going to have /some/ fun before he had to say goodbye. He needed to. He clears his throat. “It has…. It’s actually been decent, working with you. And, you know, since we don’t hang out much often,” he winces, “I thought we could celebrate… before parting ways.”

Draco chokes. “Parting ways? Now you’re starting to sound like me, for Merlin’s sake.” He smiles, and Harry notices that he actually has an honest-to-god dimple, flashing in the crook of his left cheek-- and that it really wasn't helping matters with his obsession with Draco, as it was so _stupidly_ charming. “But sure. Are you up for some drinks?”

Harry thought the day couldn’t possibly get better once Draco had said yes—but it had just gotten so, so much better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I have a thing for drunk Draco and Harry totally does too... so let's see how that plays out ⸂⸂⸜(രᴗര๑)⸝⸃⸃


	5. Chapter 5

Draco stays sober for about twelve minutes and thirty-eight seconds.

Not that Harry was counting, of course. He simply had a great watch Ron had gotten him for his birthday two years ago strapped on his wrist. And it wasn’t like he was _waiting_ for Draco to get drunk. In fact, he was worried about what would happen if he did, because whining, pouting Draco Malfoy wasn’t a pretty sight. (Wait. Screw it—it was. Extremely.)

Nevertheless, Harry kept telling himself he didn’t care about how many shots Draco downed or drinks he drained. And even if he did, which he totally didn’t, it was merely because he would have a terribly difficult time trying to Apparate with a slurring, staggering Draco Malfoy grasping his arm.

Draco picks up his glass, holding it up to his face and pressing it against his cheek. He sighs contentedly. “So nice.”

Harry gives a nonchalant _hmm_ and sips his Butterbeer. Draco called him a baby for ordering it when they first came in, but Harry lets his gaze rove over the messy blonde hair and flushed grin, sneaking a peek at the patch of creamy, pale skin exposed right at the tip of his collarbone, and smirks. _Who’s the baby now?_

Draco stands up, nearly knocking over his chair and stumbling, a look of wide surprise in his eyes. “Woah,” he says softly, smiling sheepishly at Harry. “Guess I’m a little tipsy. Do you want anything?”

Harry purses his lips to hide his amusement and shakes his head. “You go on.”

He returns a few moments later holding bright crimson drinks in both his hands, singing along cheerfully to the song—even though the song has no lyrics and vaguely resembles the pieces of Mozart Harry’s 2nd grade music teacher had forced him to listen to--either that or an exceedingly depressing funeral march. He slips into his seat, humming.

“So.” He says, eyes bright and excited. “Are you having fun?”

“Fun?” Harry snorted. “Absolutely. I’m enjoying entertainment at its finest.”

“That’s nice to hear.” Draco replies happily. “You must not have gotten much _fun_ for so long in your life.” He frowns. “Sorry, was that mean?”

“Not so much mean as it is true,” Harry says, shrugging. “Fighting a Dark Lord and attempting to escape near-certain death only to eventually succumb to it—well, it tends to consume a lot of your leisure time.”

Draco nods, the gesture seeming less out of understanding and more out of a growing desire to go to bed. He rubs his eyes sleepily, and an image of tucking a murmuring, mewling Draco Malfoy to bed pops into Harry’s mind without any warning—he pushes it away vigorously, fanning his face and clearing his throat even though Draco’s far from paying him any attention. He was so glad Draco wasn’t an accomplished Legilimens.

“Look, er… we can go if you want.” He suggests, silently hoping Draco will insist on staying.

“Really?” He asks, a tad drowsily. “But it’s only been… what…”

“Twenty minutes and nineteen seconds.” Harry supplies. “Not that I know for sure,” he adds hastily.

“Riiiight.” Draco draws out the word, setting his glass down. “Hmm.. well, let me just—“ He twists in his chair to reach for his bag, but his elbow knocks over the glass and sends its contents flying across the table and—oh /hell/—straight onto Harry’s shirt. He groans as the vibrant red liquid soaks into the fabric, spreading rapidly, and Draco’s mouth flies open.

“Shit, Harry, I didn’t mean to—“

Harry blinks, all thoughts of ruined clothes flying out of his mind instantly. “I’m sorry, did you just call me—“

“I’ll have my wand over here, or some of those Muggle stain-removers that I’ll never admit to using but are bloody brilliant, oh hell, that’s really an awful shade of cherry, isn’t it, clashes with your eyes, simply _horrific_ , I should’ve gotten the Hawaiian cocktails instead—“ He rushes over to Harry, a fistful of tissues clenched in his left hand and his wand dangling from his right, and practically sits on his lap. Ignoring—or simply not noticing—the stifled sounds of panic Harry’s making, he starts dabbing frantically at the red blooming in flowery shapes almost directly over Harry’s chest.

Harry tries to pry the tissues out of Draco’s hand, but he continues to dab fretfully, eyebrows pulled together in concentration and biting his lip, looking adorably distressed. Harry shifts as Draco’s knees dig into his thighs, choosing to focus his gaze on the intricate carvings adorning Draco’s wand, but finding it trailing back to Draco—more specifically, his face, and even more specifically, his lips, which he was now running his tongue along nervously.

“This is my best,” he sighs, finally relenting and drawing back. “I hope that shirt doesn’t hold any special sentimental value for you.”

“Really? Your best?” Harry jokes, but his voice sounds stiff and strained.

“Of course it is,” he pouts. “Oh—whoops.” His wand slips between his fingers, but Harry reaches out and catches it just in time, passing it back to him. He laughs. “You were always a better Seeker than me."

“Yeah,” Harry breathes out, but his hand hovers in the air, less than an inch away from Draco’s—and he sees his eyes flit over to it uncertainly. Refusing to break eye contact, he slowly, intimately, wraps his fingers around his wrist, the touch burning and freezing cold at once. Draco gulps, his arm trembling the slightest bit under his grip, and spurred on by the soft tremors, Harry leans over, closing the little distance between them, and presses his lips against his.

The kiss starts off gentle, with Harry curving his arm around Draco’s waist and holding him up, tentative and innocent. Harry can sense Draco’s surprise, but he responds quickly, enthusiastically, and Harry smiles as he tastes the sweet, fruity tang lingering on his lips. A fire builds in his chest, crackling and glowing, and as Draco’s hands tug at his hair and his tongue flickers playfully against his lips, the fire leaps into his throat, scorching and scalding hot. His heart throbs, and he squeezes Draco’s body closer to his, pushing his lips hungrily against his, and jolts of electricity snake down his spine, making him crave more with each passing second. Draco clutches at the hem of Harry’s shirt, pulling it down and grunting in frustration when he realizes it’s a button-up, and Harry lets out a low moan—and they break apart, breathing hard. “Public space,” Harry whispers, the tips of their noses brushing and sending the flames into a frenzy again, forcing Harry to shove the compelling desire down. Draco rolls his eyes but nods, straightening up.

Draco’s cheeks are splotched scarlet, and the first thing Harry notices—after his swollen lips, which, let’s face it, are the probably and definitely the sexiest thing in this entire fucking galaxy—is that the dazed, dreamy look has vanished entirely from his eyes, replaced by a devious, smug streak of satisfaction.

“You weren’t drunk,” Harry says suddenly.

“No,” Draco says, climbing off Harry’s lap (much to his severe disappointment) and settling into the seat at his right. “I never was.”

Harry gapes. “But you—you—“

“Alcohol is hardly different from water for me.” He smirks, his gray eyes sparkling mischievously. “And Blaise and Theo are right—when I do get drunk, I end up acting quite loud and obnoxious, not all fluffy and cuddly like a baby kitten.”

Harry's head is spinning out of control, spiraling and whirring. He scowls. “So is this some sort of _joke_? First you _lure_ me in to your little trap and what, hook, line and sinker? How is this—“

“Of course not!” Draco looks down at his hands and sighs. “Oh, stuff it. I’ve loved you for so _bloody_ long, Potter, and we were always enemies. Don’t get me wrong—I liked being enemies, for the most part, because I could stalk you and tease you and laugh at you. Then we were co-workers, then partners on a mission, and then maybe even friends and I was too much of a coward to grab an opportunity when I had one, so I devised a crazy plan on the spot and convinced you I was drunk, so I could be less of the stuck-up prick I am normally and—“

“Shut up.”

“Excuse me?”

“Shut. Up.” A corner of Harry’s mouth twists up. “Don’t even try to apologize, because I’m not listening, you prat. All I could think of while you were stammering that stupid speech was how much time we were wasting when we could be kissing and how attractive you are right after a shag and how glad I am that you told me you loved me first.”

“Liked, I meant liked.” He corrects automatically. Harry cocks his head, raising his eyebrows. “Fine. I said loved. Happy?”

“Very.” Harry presses a chaste kiss onto Draco’s chin, relishing in the way the color floods his cheeks instantly, and pulls back reluctantly. A question forms in his mind. “Oh, wait. Was the, er, name-calling intentional too?”

“What name calling?” Draco averts his gaze, and Harry laughs.

“So it wasn’t.”

“I have no inkling as to what moment you’re referring to,” he sniffs.

“Okay, _Draco_.”

Draco stares back at him, wide-eyed and startled and mouth hanging slightly open and ears tinged a dull, embarrassed pink, the fluorescent lights spread across his cheeks and coating his skin in a velvety glow— _beautiful_ , Harry thinks, somewhat scathingly. He was so fucking _beautiful_ and _attractive_ and _stunning_ and _hot_.

“Okay, Harry,” he whispers, and Harry feels warm and dizzy and tingly and ecstatic.

“Okay, Draco,” he repeats, grinning so wide it feels like his face is splitting in two.

✷

“Hi.”

Harry looks up. A lean, lanky guy with chestnut curls lopes up to him. “Uh, are you talking to me?”

“Who else is here?” He approaches his table and sticks out a hand. “I’m Ethan.”

Harry glances around suspiciously, wondering when Draco will come back, but shakes his hand. “Harry.” He sees Ethan’s eyes flicker up to his forehead and he pushes his hair back, rolling his eyes. “Potter.”

“Of course,” he says, sounding even more interested than before. “I like your scar.”

“I like your… er… shoes.” Harry says lamely, even though his shoes are hardly unique—or stylish, for that matter.

“So you want to hang out for a while?”

“Oh, no thanks, I was just leaving.”

“Really? Why?”

“Because he’s dumb and reckless and he doesn’t know how to turn people down.” Draco appears around the corner, strolling in their direction. He reaches a hand out, smiling pleasantly. “Draco Malfoy. I’m here with Harry.”

“Draco _Malfoy_?”

“No handshake?” Draco drops his hand, shaking his head. “Not very polite, are you?”

“Look, when you say you’re _here_ , do you mean—“

“Not very smart, either,” Draco notes, and the guy clamps his mouth shut, glaring. “Yes, we mean that we’re here together, that we’re here, and that we’re together.”

“Right. Fine.” Ethan retorts, and passes a small piece of paper over to Harry. “For when you get tired of this bloke.”

Harry accepts the paper but winces when he feels Draco’s eyes drilling holes into his side. Once Ethan has disappeared safely out of sight, the card bursts into flames in Harry’s hands, and he drops it, yelping. “I think I have blisters on my palms now,” he complains.

“You probably don’t know this yet, Potter, but I get jealous really easily.”

“Clearly,” he muttered, blowing at the tiny burns on his hand. Draco fishes another sparkling vial of liquid out of his bag, throwing it to him.

“They’ll be gone in no time.”

Harry pours some of it onto his hand, and feels a cool, calming sensation spreading. “That’s so much better.” He frowns. “Also, why am I Potter again?”

“Because I get jealous really easily.” Draco replies, crossing his arms. “So what do you have to say?”

“Don’t get jealous?” Harry guesses weakly.

“I’ll give you one more shot.”

“Well, I’m sorry for talking to a guy who, for your information, came up to me first and complimented me on my _scar_ out of all things, how ridiculous—“

“One. More.”

Harry thinks. “I don’t like brunettes very much?”

Draco sighs. “You’re an idiot. But here's the thing: you’re _my_ idiot, okay?”

“That sounds rather possessive.”

“I _am_ rather possessive.”

“Fine. Then I’ll be your idiot and you be my prat.”

“God, Harry, I didn’t know you were such a romantic.” He says sarcastically.

Harry wraps both his arms around Draco’s waist, burying his face into his back. He smiles as he feels Draco flinch, surprised. Considering how brave and blasé a front he usually had on, the smallest, subtlest gestures elicited the cutest reactions out of him. His voice muffled, he replies “I didn’t know _you_ were, either, Draco.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... plot twist... kinda? XD


	6. Chapter 6

Harry was really starting to miss the original Slug Club. The huge swarms of chattering, waving, shouting people were deeply annoying him.

He sips on his pumpkin juice without actually drinking it for the what's probably the tenth time in a single minute. Hermione and Ron are bickering about the trip to Finland they’re planning to take over the summer, Hermione sighing and shaking her head, Ron gesturing furiously and stomping his foot (“Oh, stop acting like such a _child_ , Ronald!”) , and for once, Harry’s glad that they’re fighting, because that means they aren’t paying him any attention.

His gaze flickers over to the entrance every few seconds, and he clutches his drink a little tighter each time he thinks he notices a shock of blond hair or sweep of fancy robes. He’s surprised the glass hadn’t cracked into pieces yet—he' grasping it so intently his fingers are turning a ghostly white.

A red-faced Ron brings his anxious thoughts to a halt. “Don’t you agree, Harry?”

“Er—I’m, uh—“

“Don’t _pressure_ him, he can decide for himself,” Hermione cuts in, glaring at Ron. “So, Harry what do you think?”

“I think that—that—oh, there’s Ginny and Luna, we should go and say hi.” Harry says hurriedly, spotting the pair strolling into the party, holding hands.

Ron and Hermione exchange a look, but Harry quickly walks over, forcing a nervous smile onto his face. “Hey, Ginny, Luna.”

“Hello,” Luna replies with her telltale lilt. She purses her lips contemplatively, pointing at Harry’s glass. “Harry, are you sure that’s safe to drink? The shade of sapphire blue awfully reminds me of Billywigs—I got stung by one once—well, on purpose, because I heard it could provide you with great insight when your creativity has been stalled. It wasn't the most pleasant experience.” She tilted her head. “But I did get a flash of inspiration for a new project, so maybe you _should_ go ahead and drink it.”

Ginny rolls her eyes affectionately. “You’re boring him, Luna. It was nice to see you, Harry. We’ll go grab some punch and—oh no, Slughorn’s headed over here, we better go.” She winks, placing a hand on Luna’s back and guiding her to the refreshments table.

RIght on cue, Slughorn comes trotting up, his hair noticeably grayer and his belly bulging even more prominently than during Harry’s Hogwarts years, but his voice remains loud and booming. “Harry! I wasn’t sure if you could make it, with you being the Savior of the Wizarding World and all--but of course, I did help you quite a bit on your journey, it wouldn’t’ve been right any other way—“ He clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder, causing him to wince slightly. “How have you been doing? Bet you’re raking in money by the Galleons, eh?”

Harry laughs uncomfortably. “I suppose, sir.”

“Well, I can tell you for certain now that you’re the most famous and my _favorite_ out of all my previous pupils. I didn’t know if you’d make the list back when we met in your sixth year—didn’t know if you’d _make_ it, quite frankly—“ he barks out a laugh, “But here you are; here we are! To us.” He raises his extra-large glass, filled with a bubbly golden ambrosia that resembles Felix Felicis, and clinks it against Harry’s. He takes a huge gulp. “Ho! I see your friend Hermione Granger is here too! I must go say hi, she’s definitely going to become a _highly_ influential figure one day, mark my words—“ He gives Harry a final, parting pat and waddles off cheerfully in Hermione’s direction.

“You seem to be having fun.”

Harry’s heart thumps, and he whips around. “Uh—Draco—hello—hi.”

Draco picks up a small cup containing a clear, purple liquid, and Harry doesn’t get why the gesture, normally so menial and devoid of significance, suddenly appears so supremely delicate.

“Hello, Harry.” He says simply.

“That’s uh, that’s my name,” Harry says, and seriously considers kicking himself in the shin for being so stupid. Draco assumes an amused expression, and Harry blushes.

“What do we have here.” Harry looks up to see Theo and Blaise striding towards them, wearing nearly identical smirks. “My, Potter, your face could pass for a ripe tomato.”

“Good afternoon to you too,” Harry grumbles, just as he notices Hermione and Ron approaching in the corner of his eyes and begins to panic. Just because he had adopted an amicable relationship with the Slytherins—perhaps _amorous_ would be a better word for one of them—there was no guarantee that his friends would, too.

So his mouth drops open when Hermione sighs, and turning to Blaise, says irritably, “I _thought_ you were working your arse off at home for the report you told me you’d hand in on Monday.” He gives her a _who-are-you-kidding_ look. “Fine, I knew you’d be here. Where there’s a party, there’s a Zabini, no?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Exactly. You’ve finally grasped my working style.”

“Which working style? I don’t know which one you’re talking about because you obviously do not have one.” She huffs, twisting around to face Harry. “And Harry, did you send Slughorn to come pester me? I had to promise him a private visit to the Ministry to get him off my back—that and my word to include him in my inauguration speech when I’m elected Minister of Magic. He said when, not if,” she adds, a hint of pride in her voice.

Harry shrugs. “He left of his own accord.”

“Of course, right.” She says. She glances at Harry, then at Draco, a piercing glint in her eyes. She nods slowly, a smug smile stretching across her face—Harry didn’t like it one bit. “Harry? Is there something you’d like to tell us—well, Ron and I?”

Harry decides that he is going to murder her once he has escaped from this torturous conversation.

“Why?” Harry forces out, his nonchalance swiftly fading when Draco runs a hand through his hair and fixes his gaze on him.

“Oh, nothing, you know, just—“

“The love potion wasn’t for you to start drooling over Weasley,” Blaise interrupts, eyes sliding over to Draco, whose cheeks were beginning to rapidly flush with color. “You were supposed to fall in love with the first person you laid eyes on, and that person was supposed to be—“

“Me.” Draco mutters. “Thanks for the interesting bit of information, Blaise, I’m sure everyone will forget about that quickly enough.”

Ron gawks. “You mean the time he started pulling out all my socks and burying his nose in them because apparently, my feet smelled ‘exceptionally glorious’?”

“They’re certainly _something_ ,” Hermione coughs, and Ron glares at her.

“Yes, that time,” Theo says calmly. “It took a fair amount of interrogation and investigation to finally figure out Draco’s motives.”

“If he wanted to prank Harry by making him obsessed with him, all he needed to do was start disappearing into the Room of Requirement again. Either that or reopen the Chamber of Secrets, but I personally think the former would’ve been slightly easier,” Ron snickers. Harry adds _bury Ron six feet under the ground_ to his mental checklist, right below _feed Hermione to starving acromantulas_.

“Honestly, Malfoy, you needn’t be so embarrassed.” Hermione chimes in. “Harry was beyond infatuated with you in second and sixth—wait, fifth, too—wait, first, too—wait—“

“Hermione?” Harry cuts in, his voice dangerously sweet. “That’s enough.”

“Oh, please, Draco used to be up _all night_ plotting ways to taunt Potter, trap Potter, bait Potter, get Potter’s knickers in a twist, quite literally—“ Theo chuckles. “If anyone had an obsession, it was him.”

“So, Harry, do you have anything to tell us?” Hermione questions again.

He scowls. “Yes. Stop bullying us.”

“Us? Which us? I have no idea who you’re referring to, Harry, because you won’t tell us anything.”

“Granger, you’re quite terrible at this. But since I’ve already watched Potter flounder and stammer enough to last me a lifetime—Weasley, Harry and I are together. As in _together_. And I’m only addressing this to you because you’re the only one here who hasn’t picked up on this yet and I’m feeling particularly sympathetic today.”

Ron’s mouth opens and closes, before he whispers a shocked _oh_. Another few moments pass before he finally lets out a long, comprehending _ohhhhh_ that sounds suspiciously like a yawn.

Blaise snorts. “Sleepy much?”

“I’m not that great at reading people,” Ron retorts defensively. His eyes land on Harry’s, and he gives a tentative grin. “I’m happy for you, mate.” Harry’s heart collapses in relief. “I’m not going to lie and say that _I’m_ happy to be welcoming a Malfoy in as a potential family member—but all’s fine as long as you’re the one to tell my mum you two are swapping spit.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” He complains.

“Probably because it’s true,” Theo chirps.

Hermione tilts her head. “You know, Harry, when I assigned you two _partners_ , I didn’t quite mean for it to end up this way.”

Harry scoffs. “Yes, because I clearly expected you to intentionally set us up.”

“Well, I _have_ always thought the pair of you would be an intriguing match, what with your history and all—“ she clears her throat at Harry’s incredulous look, “But I’m glad, I really am.”

“Partners who became partners,” Blaise sniggers. “What a love story.”

“Oh, by all means, do carry on tormenting us.” Draco says dramatically.

“I wish I could, but we’ve got to get going, the dance floor looks so sad and abandoned,” Ron says, not sounding the least bit apologetic. He mouths something that looks a lot like _why the sodding fuck is_ Krum _here_ to Harry, then drags a protesting Hermione off to the far side of the room.

“And so do we.” Theo hooks his arm around Blaise’s. “By all means, Potter, Draco, do carry on being disgustingly romantic.” They wave and disappear back into the crowds of people.

“We really have such great friends.” Harry grumbles, taking a gulp of his drink.

“The very best,” Draco agrees, turning to Harry. He narrows his eyes, sighing exasperatedly. “You got something—“

He stretches out an arm, reaching for a spot on the tip of Harry’s mouth, but pulls it back, running his teeth along his lips thoughtfully. Harry looks at him curiously, and he gives a wicked grin and leans over, pressing his lips firmly against the spot, licking the tiny speck of cream off Harry’s lips teasingly. Harry groans and tilts his head up, properly crashing his lips against Draco’s and savoring the spicy, sweet scent of pumpkin that slips into his mouth, spreading softly.

“I think this is what they meant by disgustingly romantic,” Harry murmurs.

“Then I can’t think of a better thing to be.” Draco replies, wrapping an arm around Harry’s waist and pulling him closer, enveloping him in a lazy, passionate kiss and smiling-- _smiling_ \--like he was actually happy, and because he actually was happy. Really, truly, and abso-freaking-lutely happy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you soo much to everyone for reading!! (´• ω •`) ♡


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